1885, I came to save Greece

Chapter 302 A French Dinner

Chapter 302 A French Dinner

Rousseau's visit shattered Ahmed Riza's inner peace.

He waited for three days.

For the next three days, he didn't go to Lancaster House to listen to those tedious, tedious arguments. He locked himself in his damp, cheap apartment, pacing back and forth like a caged animal. Every word of that message from his "Greek friend" felt like a steel needle piercing his nerves.

The other party's insight into the inner workings of "Al-Shabaab" was so accurate that it sent chills down his spine.

This was not just a victory in intelligence, but also a crushing defeat in thought. The other side saw through his ideals and foresaw his predicament, then, from a superior position, threw him an invisible thread.

On the evening of the fourth day, the opportunity came.

A gold-embossed invitation was delivered to the hotel where the Ottoman delegation was staying. The French Embassy in London was hosting a grand diplomatic dinner to "mediate" the increasingly tense atmosphere of the negotiations. Almost all diplomatic envoys in London had received invitations.

Ahmed Riza, as an advisor to the delegation, also received one. He held the smooth card in his hand, his fingertips icy cold. This wasn't ordinary social interaction; he understood it was a signal.

The stage is set up, just waiting for the actors to take the stage.

The study of the Greek delegation's official residence.

Constantine stood before the full-length mirror, his attendant adjusting his cufflinks. Venizelos entered, already dressed in a well-tailored black tuxedo, his hair impeccably combed.

"Your Highness."

Constantine looked at him in the mirror and waved for the attendants to leave.

"Tonight, you will meet someone, Ahmed Riza," Constantine's voice rang out in the quiet study, flat and clear.

He turned around, picked up a glass of red wine from the desk, and handed it to Venizelos.

"He will come to you. I need you to have a debate with him."

Venizelos raised an eyebrow. He took the glass, but didn't drink.

What is the topic of the debate?

Constantine's lips curled slightly.

"The advantages and disadvantages of constitutional monarchy and republic."

He stared at Venizelos, his dark eyes revealing no hint of a joke.

"I'm sending you not to preach how good monarchy is," Constantine said, walking to the window and looking at the street illuminated by gaslights. "But to use the harshest reality to pull him from the paradise of theory back into the mire of reality. To make him understand that the theories he holds cannot save his country."

Venizelos was silent for a moment. This Republican fighter from Crete instantly understood the Crown Prince's intention. This was a battle of wits, a battle of words aimed at winning hearts and minds.

There is no more vicious or effective means of having one republican destroy the beliefs of another.

"I understand," Venizelos said. "Let him face reality, and then what?"

"Finally," Constantine walked up to him, took a folded piece of paper from his vest pocket, and stuffed it into Venizelos's hand, "give this to him."

Venizelos glanced down at the note in his hand but didn't open it. He simply slipped it into his pocket, then picked up his glass and downed the red liquid in one gulp.

"Yes, Your Highness. Although it feels a little strange to be asked to defend the monarchy."

In the banquet hall of the French Embassy, ​​crystal chandeliers cast a dazzling light, illuminating the entire hall as if it were daytime. Elegant ladies mingled, glasses clinked, and the air was filled with the melodious strains of a waltz. The jewelry of the ladies shimmered brilliantly under the lights.

This is a microcosm of European power dynamics, where every seemingly casual greeting may conceal a diplomatic deal.

Ahmed Riza was like a ghost, out of place in this glitz and glamour. He didn't touch the exquisite food and champagne, but silently moved through the crowd with a glass of water in hand. His gaze, sharp as a hawk's, swept over faces adorned with insincere smiles, searching for his target.

He found it very quickly.

The Greek delegation was surrounded by a group of diplomats and businessmen. At the very center of this circle stood Eleftherios Venizelos, the man who had been so sharp-tongued and charismatic at the negotiating table.

He was chatting and laughing with the Russian ambassador, his demeanor composed, exuding the charm of a mature politician in every gesture.

Ahmed Riza's fist clenched quietly at his side.

Just then, Venizelos gracefully ended his conversation with the Russian ambassador. He smiled apologetically, his gaze sweeping subtly across the crowd, lingering on Ahmed Riza for less than half a second.

Then, he picked up his wine glass, turned around, and walked alone towards a secluded balcony outside the banquet hall that connected to the garden.

With his back to the bustling crowd, he leaned against the cool marble railing, gazing at the London nightscape illuminated by countless gaslights. His silhouette, bathed in the bright lights of the banquet hall, exuded a calm and composed air of absolute control.

Ahmed Riza's heart began to beat faster involuntarily.

The opportunity is here.

He took a deep breath, calming his heaving chest, then reached out and forcefully straightened his slightly wrinkled bow tie. He strode through the crowd and followed them out.

The night breeze on the balcony was exceptionally cool, dispelling the stuffiness in the banquet hall.

"Mr. Venizelos, I've long admired your name."

Ahmed Riza stepped forward and stopped a few steps behind him. His English had a clear French accent, a vestige of his studies in Paris.

Venizelos slowly turned around. He looked at the young man before him, thin and pale, but with a burning flame of resentment in his eyes. A gentle smile appeared on his face.

"Good evening, Mr. Riza."

"Your eloquence at the negotiating table is admirable," Ahmed Riza said bluntly. "But I cannot understand why such a brilliant politician, full of modern ideas, would serve a corrupt and outdated monarchy?"

His voice wasn't loud, but every word was a direct challenge. He stared intently into Venizelos's eyes, trying to find a trace of wavering in those eyes hidden behind his glasses.

Venizelos was not angry. He looked at the young Turk before him, a fleeting hint of admiration even flashing in his eyes.

"Mr. Riza, that's a very good question."

He raised his glass, took a small sip, and moved with elegance.

"Perhaps not all monarchs are like your Sultan, who only knows how to lie on the throne and watch his empire slowly rot away."

His voice was calm, yet it was like a sharp sword drawn from its sheath, piercing straight to the other person's most painful spot.

The debate has officially begun.